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“Next week.”
“Playoffs start.”
“I know. Harlan will be up in his own head. Clay will too. The best thing we can do is clear out.”
I chew my lip. “Let me think about it.”
I hang up and Brooke cocks her head.
“A month in Paris with your sister,” she says when I finish filling her in. “Last year, you would’ve jumped at that.”
“I know.” And I do want it. I picture us pushing Emily in a stroller down beautiful streets, baskets of spring flowers everywhere. “But Clay and I are still figuring out what we can be. I don’t want to risk that.”
On the way back into town, Brooke and I stop by the stadium where the guys are working out in the gym.
Clay’s lifting a massive barbell in a way that makes my insides go liquid.
Next to him, Miles drags off his shirt and reaches for a towel. Brooke’s studying him as if she’s going to be tested on it later.
The guys catch sight of us, and Clay reaches the door first.
“Hey,” he murmurs with a nod.
“Hi,” I say, breathless. “I’m sweaty.”
“Me too.” He bends to brush his lips over mine.
I don’t care if he’s sweaty. I’d climb Clay Wade like a jungle gym whether it’s arm day or leg day.
“You should ask him about it,” Brooke says.
“About what?” Clay’s instantly on alert.
Dammit.
“Mari’s going on this trip and she invited me.” I tell him the details.
“You should go,” he says.
But it’s playoffs, I want to say. I should be here.
To make sure nothing goes wrong.
“I don’t want to leave you,” I say at last.
His eyes soften. “When was the last time you and Mari went away together?”
“We were supposed to when my parents died,” I say.
Clay nods as though that seals it. “Then go. Bring me back some French shit.”
“Fries? A beret? The Mona Lisa?”
“She’s Italian.”
I arch a brow, both impressed he knows and challenging his assertion. “She’s been at the Louvre so long she’s practically French.”
Clay shrugs. “You get to decide where home is.”
